I'm not very good at explaining these things, I guess, because it would have gotten through already. Or maybe the connection's lost. But this is one thing most people can never understand about me.

To begin, though, I am a dichotomy. I am made up of contradictions. But you already know that. And I know this is in writing, but I spoke it out loud as I wrote it, as I'm writing it, because I know that you don't trust anything I write. For this one time, I assure you, it is completely me talking to you. So pretend that I'm in front of you saying all of this out loud. Sometimes it's easier to write it down. I can think more clearly this way and try to make the message more precise.

So what I mean by wanting it back is this: I want to be able to feel the rush and to come out the other end with a creation. That's it. I don't want a lapse in time, or a drain on my consciousness, or on anyone else's. I just want that creation because without it, I feel like I'm suffocating. In a way I am, because this is the air of my soul. I hate it and I love it because I'm reliant on it but at the same time, I love what it gives me because it's beautiful. No, I'm not counting the Madness part of it. I'm not counting the possession. I'm saying that creation is beautiful because it means new life, the perpetuation of life, and most importantly, the verification of my own.

No matter what I do, it is a part of me. I can't separate it out. It's not something I do. It's something I am. What I do is a result of what I am. For me, words, the Art, is as much a part of my soul, or my consciousness, or my mind, whatever you want to call it, as my skin is to my body. But like skin, it can shed and renew itself. The only thing is, if I did what you suggest, which is getting rid of it entirely, it would be like pulling all the layers off at once. They wouldn't grow back.

It makes me happy at the same time it causes me the greatest grief. I guess it's because I'm in love with it. It's an expression, it's how I release everything. I release myself. I release the collective consciousness of humanity. I release something else, too. If I shut it off, it wouldn't be fixing the problem. It would be ignoring it, bottling it up so that one day it will all come bursting out and everyone will regret it. Especially me. I can bottle it up like I pretend that everything's fine when it's anything but. There will an explosion of it and it'll kill me. Maybe that'll be a good thing, because I'll have died have died happy. I'll have an Artist. You won't be there for that, I don't think. Because you don't want to be. Because you don't understand it and no matter what I say and no matter how hard I try, you never will.

It is coming back, little by little. I'm not letting it take me over. I'm letting it pass over me and through me, like Fear. And when it has gone past me, I will turn to see its path. Where it has gone, there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

I guess this is the story, huh? It's my life. And that's all I've ever really been writing down. Because I love it. And yeah, I've thought of suicide, and death was all I ever prayed for for years, mainly because I've understood that I can never escape from my own mind, no matter what I do. But that thought of ending myself doesn't even cross my mind anymore because life is beautiful and I see that now. You're a part of that. Everything's a part of that. But things come and go and I think that things are going now. It'll only be a matter of time until they're replaced by new ones. Each time there's something new, it's even more beautiful than the last.

Lately I've just been feeling that something is lost. I've been pretending that it's not, but I'm not going to do that anymore. I should just accept it even though I'll never understand. So I turn back to my words to fill the space. That's always what they were: they were beauty to fill the empty space, but really, it's an overactive imagination. The words, the Art, all of that, it's just my overactive imagination. That's why I can't separate it from myself. It's my mind. It's my mind. If you really knew me, you'd know that. And you'd know that my mind is what's me, what people love about me, what people hate about me. And your mind is the same thing, only for you. You can't escape from yours, either. I just wonder, is it lonely in your head, too? Is that where we meet? Because I don't know where our common ground is otherwise. And if it's not there, can you explain it?

It doesn't matter now. That connection's lost. It's gone. I miss you. I miss you so much. I hope you're happy, or that you find it, because you said you're not. Overall, I finally am. I don't know what to do with it.

But I wish you can find all your wonders. I wish you can wind around the time so it holds you tight and treats you nicely. I hope you can find somebody who's true, someone who's new to you for every day you open your eyes; she'll grow your love for you and lie with you in the moonlight.

And if it were all up to me I'd wish for you to keep your childhood wonders. Even though you knew that it couldn't last I know you never quite believed it before, that life's too fast. So take your time. Don't rush it, even though you see the years stretched on a line that's too hard to master sometimes.